In The Shadow Of The Mouse

In the shadow of The Mouse,
I apply another coat of black
nailpolish, which right here,
right now, has to be stockpiled
every October, because right
here, right now, that’s the only
time you can get it. At any
other time, the Eckerd is
chock-a-block with lurid hues,
flip-flops at any given time, even
at Christmas, tucked among
the cans of spray-on snow.

I’m here because B.U. would
not have me, because this
school sees enough of
the possible in me to toss
a few thousand my way,
provided I keep my grades
up and spend a few hours
each week checking the
papers of upperclassmen
for grammar and syntax.

I am told, though, that
many students deliberately
check to see if I am there
first before entering
The Writing Center, because
I am “weird,” and “scary.”

I am secretly thrilled at this.
In the shadow of The Mouse
I am conspicuous and cheap
and charming, a ghoul amidst
the palms, a taibhse by design.
I’ve made the project of finally
matching my outside to my
insides a nearly full-time job
since figuring out, a few years
prior, that all the pegged jeans,
Weejuns, and root perms
in the world won’t disguise them.

In the shadow of The Mouse
I live, wrist-to-forehead,
seeking shade where the
sun bleaches everything
pastel, and finding the
warmth of companions
who see through the façade.